Blood For Blood: A Regency Mystery (Regency Mysteries)

by S K Rizzolo

  He looked around. Where would the thief hide? In an out-of-the-way closet or trunk perhaps, or behind the bureau in an unoccupied bedchamber. Or, he thought, as his eye fell upon the entrance to the cellar, below ground. Instinct, he reasoned. The hunted creature often goes to earth, burrowing down, forgetting he may thereby be trapped. It was worth a look anyway.

  The door opened easily, the combined smells of dust, stale air, and beery miasma hitting him like a wave. A stairway descended into total darkness. Before going in, he appropriated a lantern that was hanging from a nail by the door.

  Afraid of presenting too tempting a target outlined by the light there at the top of the little landing, Chase did not linger, but, after closing the door behind him, moved as rapidly down the steps as his knee would allow, one hand clutching the lantern, the other his pistol.

  He reached the bottom without incident. Stilling his breathing, he stood listening, without making a sound himself, for at least two or three minutes.

  The lantern shed a small island of light in the immediate vicinity, but left the greater portion of the cellars in impenetrable shadow. He sensed this was a large space, low-ceilinged and narrow. As he swung the lantern in a slow circle, he caught glimpses of the enormous ale barrels and vats of wine and other liquors, but, fortunately, heard no scurrying of rats. The landlord kept a good house, it seemed.

  Chase turned and approached the far wall, moving through the barrels, stopping to test their fastness and shining his light around them and in the corners. Then, turning, he came back, inspecting the opposite wall. It was then that he noticed the low cupboard.

  Set into the wall was a door about four feet tall and two feet wide with a newly gleaming brass handle fastened by a stout little lock. The coal hole. No doubt the landlord was wise to secure it thus. Coal was expensive. He was about to pass on, thinking that the cupboard was too small to hold a man, when something made him stoop to examine the lock. And as soon as he put out his hand, the lock came away, and Chase saw that underneath it a round, precise hole had been cut in the wood.

  “You may as well show yourself.” He trained his pistol on the cupboard.

  ***

  A diminutive, coal-smudged figure emerged, its hands lifted in surrender. “Chase?”

  Chase lowered the pistol. “Goddamnit, Packet. What are you doing in there?”

  He grinned. “Obvious, ain’t it? I have to say I’m right glad it’s you what found me. Maybe that salvation seal is bringing me some luck for a change. I could use it. How’d you know I was there?”

  “This is the second time this day I’ve discovered a little man hid in a little space. Empty your pockets.”

  Packet hesitated. Even in the dimness Chase could see his eyes flitting from side to side, to the stairwell, and back again.

  “Empty them, Noah,” he said again, inexorably.

  Sighing, Packet complied, removing a gold watch and two seals from a pouch under his shirt. Then darting an inquiring look at Chase, he dug in deeper, this time emerging with a fob from which he took two small saws, about three inches long, of highly finished tempered steel. They were made to slice through chains or iron bars, silently.

  Chase took possession of the hoard, putting the watch and seals into his greatcoat and slipping the fob and saws into his boot. “Where’s the other gold watch?”

  Packet looked pained. “One of them others had it.” He pulled out his handkerchief and began to wipe the black streaks off his face, still avoiding Chase’s eyes.

  “This is it, you know. Nabbed in the act with expensive goods. One of your cohorts threatening citizens with a gun. You’d weigh forty for sure.” He referred to the practice of waiting until an offender’s crimes increased in scope until at last the Runner could be sure of a capital conviction and a portion of the forty-pound reward.

  “I ain’t worried you’ll blow the gab. Ought I to be?”

  Chase skewered the other man’s gaze so that it couldn’t slip away again. “I should have pressed you further that day at the menagerie. You’ll tell me the whole now. I assume the ‘misunderstanding’ that sent you to earth is behind today’s little foray?”

  “I always said you was a knowing one,” Packet said admiringly.

  “Well?”

  The single syllable had been harsh, uncompromising. Packet, perhaps beginning to feel the tingle of cold doubt, rushed into speech. “Started when I chose myself the wrong mark, one as no man would care to trouble. Bit of bad luck. Plucked what was in his pockets.”

  “The fellow didn’t appreciate your attentions, I take it?” He studied his companion, noting the unshaven cheeks and gaunt filthiness under the superficial dusting of coal. “If you’ve had a bad time of it, you’re well served.”

  Packet’s gaze slid to his boots, a favorite trick he had when he wanted to look pathetic. “He come up with me t’other day and said either I march with his lay or else. No choice. I had no blunt to buy him off.”

  The story was probably true. If a local criminal had put on the clamp, only the foolhardy would resist. Besides, Packet’s lay had always been lifting handkerchiefs, snuff-boxes, and the like from chubs on the street. More than that, he traded in the information he picked up, hoarding any tidbit against the possibility of future value. He had not been, to this point, a housebreaker.

  “You’ve gone too far this time, Noah,” said Chase.

  “Last time, you asked me about that son-in-law of Sir Roger’s. I picked up a bit o’ hearsay that may prove serviceable. He likes the little ’uns—girls, the younger the better. I had a word with a maidservant at a certain house of pleasure. She allows as this Lord Ashe is a frequent caller.”

  Chase’s lip curled. “Charming people, these swells. And yet I don’t see how Ashe’s tastes matter unless perhaps Ransom had learned of them and was blackmailing him.”

  “Maybe I got something else for you,” said Packet, watching his face anxiously. “You ever look into that other accommodation house?”

  Chase folded his arms in front of him. “I did and discovered that the murdered footman was known there, so your information did not come amiss. I have unfinished business with the whore in charge.”

  “O’Callaghan, one Patrick O’Callaghan. You find him, Chase. You talk to him and see what’s what. But best you be cautious like. He’s a dangerous ’un.”

  “Who is he?”

  Packet coughed. “He got me into this fix. The salvation seal I showed you belonged to him. I hear tell he’s got some dealings with that house, owns a piece of it maybe. That’s why I sent you.”

  “But conveniently forgot to mention this O’Callaghan’s existence?”

  “Smart cove like you, I figured you’d be on to him yourself and maybe do me a good turn and get him off my back. Kill two birds with one stone.”

  Chase gave a short laugh. “He’s the man you robbed, isn’t he? A common thief himself. Lord, that’s rich, Packet.”

  “A thief, but he ain’t common,” Packet said dryly. “We met at a pub in Little Windmill Street to plan this little jaunt. It’s a place where you find men of Jacobin leanings, something I don’t hold with, I can tell you. Anyhow, I did pick up one interesting titbit. It’s allowed as how this Dick Ransom was a known radical. They were busy toasting his memory.” He shot a look at Chase. “I see I ain’t surprised you none.”

  “Get to the point.” Chase’s interest had sharpened. He could always tell when Packet was about to cough up the real information, for his voice got even hoarser, his gaze fluttering like more than a dozen moths.

  The little man shot him an injured look. “I heard talk of a meeting of a certain committee. I warrant O’Callaghan will be there.”

  “Oh? When is this meeting is to occur?”

  “Tuesday week to be exact,” he said triumphantly. “But I ain’t mentioned the cream of the jest…” The eyes rested on his only momentarily. “You know how them secret societies got their codes and their handshakes and all that rot? These boys wil
l have to show their salvation seal along with a password, of course. I didn’t get that, of course, but I reckon it might be something as has a sort of Biblical flavor.”

  “Give it me then,” said Chase. “The seal, I mean. I’ll be needing it, and don’t try to tell me you’ve restored O’Callaghan’s property to him.”

  After Packet had placed it in his hand, Chase asked, “Packet, on the subject of the Jacobins, do you know anything about an underground conspiracy afoot in London? Men with nothing to lose plotting mayhem against King and country and giving sleepless nights to Home Office spies and informants?”

  “You mean like the Luddites? It’s true many would like to see the swells get theirs. Folk is tired of the rich taking all.”

  Before Chase could ask another question, the door at the top of the steps opened. Packet froze.

  Farley’s voice floated down. “You there, Chase? No sign of him, and I checked the bedchambers as well.”

  Reaching out to grip the top of Packet’s head, Chase sent him sprawling to the stone floor. A subdued grunt told him he hadn’t been particularly gentle about it either.

  “Chase?”

  “I’m just coming. We had best go see if the thieves dropped some of the booty in the lane as they fled. Worth a try anyway.”

  Chapter XVI

  Julia and Penelope did not ordinarily breakfast with Sir Roger and Lord Ashe, who both came down early before departing for various pursuits, antiquarian or political. Julia never stirred until eleven o’clock after long nights spent dancing and drinking French wine at one Society gathering after another. And more often than not, she required Penelope to accompany her, not seeming to notice or care that her companion had not a word to say to the hard-faced, glittering throng of people who looked through her as if she were invisible. Nor did Julia seem to realize that Penelope rose with the sun to mind a four-year-old bursting with energy.

  Today, however, Ashe had left instructions that his wife was to present herself at the breakfast table, so here they were, both heavy-eyed and listless, Julia sullen with resentment.

  “Good morning, my dear.” Rising, he bowed to Penelope. “And you, Mrs. Wolfe. You are looking well this morning, ma’am.”

  Julia did not reply, but Penelope thanked him and took her seat, smoothing her blue muslin gown, one of three given her to replace the ruined green sarsenet. At first, she had not wanted to accept the dresses, but had reflected sourly that, after all, she earned them and that pride should not require her to appear so often in public unsuitably clad. The mystery of who had destroyed the first gown had never been solved, though the outcry amongst the maids who had felt themselves under suspicion had been unpleasant. But Penelope was almost certain the culprit had been Mrs. Sterling, who made no secret of her dislike and resentment.

  Immersed in his book, Sir Roger barely acknowledged their arrival, merely nodding to his daughter and offering Penelope an absent smile. As Penelope sipped her chocolate and nibbled at a roll, a prickly silence lay over the table, a silence that ought to have made everyone uncomfortable but seemed to be affecting only the one person who had nothing to do with whatever was brewing.

  Seeming determined not to speak first, Julia sat in her chair, from time to time pushing back a stray lock of hair, which, undressed and flowing down her back, glowed in the morning light that streamed through the windows. Her face was uncharacteristically still, her skin like a smooth, brittle shell worn thin by the sea.

  “You will be wondering why I troubled you to come down early this morning, my love,” said Ashe conversationally after a time.

  Julia stared at her plate, giving no sign she had heard him except for a faint tightening around her mouth and a clenching of white fingers around her cup.

  “We leave for Dorset in the morning with your father. I thought you would like to know so that you may make your preparations.”

  Sir Roger looked up, surprised. “You mean to accompany me to Cayhill? I had thought you fixed here for the Season at any rate. What on earth will you do in the country? You know I shall be occupied with my excavations.”

  “We are content to remain quiet. No doubt Julia will benefit from the air and from some simple, wholesome food. She’s looking a bit pulled, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Sir Roger, studying his daughter with puzzled eyes. “But she’ll be sadly bored, you know, Ashe.”

  “As if you have ever cared how I felt about anything,” said Julia in a low, passionate voice. She sent a contemptuous glance at her father, then turned to her husband. “You are mistaken, my lord. I have no plans to remove from London at present. You, however, may do as you please.”

  Lifting his coffee to his lips, Ashe smiled, and, replacing his cup deliberately, addressed his wife in the same pleasant, even tone. “You will do precisely as I bid you. You see, my dear, I’ve had my fill of you comporting yourself like Haymarket ware in every drawing room in London. You shall not return to Society until you have learned self-control and breeding.”

  Julia flinched as if he had slapped her. “My God, Ashe, you’d think I’d been carrying on like that silly cow Caro Lamb, yearning day and night over that insipid poet, following him all over town, and making perfect a cake of herself. I’ve done nothing of the kind. Why do you think I take care to keep more than one string to my bow? I do assure you ’tis out of consideration for you.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” he replied dryly. “Nevertheless, you will make yourself ready to depart on the morrow. It is precisely the sort of situation in which my friend William Lamb finds himself that I seek to avert.”

  “If you are quite certain, Ashe,” broke in Sir Roger, “I must tell Finch, who is engaged even now in packing up a number of my curiosities to be conveyed to Cayhill. I’m afraid there won’t be much room in the baggage coach.”

  “Damn your monstrosities, Father,” cried Julia. “I’ll not travel with them or stay in that great ugly barn you’ve built as monument to the past, a filthy, sordid past that will pull you down and choke you if you let it. I won’t have it.” Her voice had risen dangerously, and Penelope, wishing herself anyplace but here, half rose as if to leave the room.

  It was a mistake. Recalling her presence, Sir Roger said, “What of Mrs. Wolfe? I suppose you intend that she should accompany Julia, Ashe? I own I would find her services most welcome in setting some of my papers to rights.”

  “If she wishes,” came the indifferent reply.

  Penelope sat down again. “I rather think I had better stay in town. I encountered a cousin of mine in the Park not long ago. He mentioned that he and his wife would be glad to welcome Sarah and me for a visit. I have written to my father about the invitation, and, though he has yet to reply, I am sure he would approve this opportunity to mend an old breach in our family.”

  Julia’s hand snaked across the tablecloth to grip Penelope’s arm. “You couldn’t be so cruel, Mrs. Wolfe. Please, you must accompany me. I cannot bear it alone.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Julia, don’t be so melodramatic,” snapped her husband. “Mrs. Wolfe must do as she thinks best, of course.”

  “Penelope?”

  With Julia’s gaze fixed beseechingly on her face, she found it impossible to look away. She had never truly liked this woman, nor did she especially trust her. She half thought that Julia deserved her husband’s scorn. And yet the expression in her eyes held Penelope immobile, for she had seen it before in her own mirror.

  ***

  On his way to the chambers of a barrister friend, Buckler caught sight of a lady in blue, who strolled along twirling a parasol that, he noticed inconsequentially, clashed with her gown. As she lowered the parasol, he saw her face for the first time and recognized Penelope.

  “Mr. Buckler,” she exclaimed with a bright smile as he approached. “I was just coming to find you. How do you do?”

  “Is everything all right?” he asked sharply. He had grown increasingly worried since he had heard Thorogood
’s report of the jaunt to Clerkenwell Green and had, in fact, intended a visit to St. James’s Square the very next day.

  “Why, yes, of course, but I have come to take my leave of you. We leave for Dorset tomorrow to pay a visit to Sir Roger’s estate.”

  “Dorset? This is rather sudden. Are you certain you wish to go, Mrs. Wolfe? With the murder business as yet unresolved, I don’t think I shall feel easy in my mind.”

  “I didn’t mean to at first. Do you remember my friend Maggie Foss? When I objected that I wouldn’t have a proper person to mind Sarah, Lady Ashe said I should employ Maggie to accompany us, if you can credit that. At any rate, Mr. Buckler, I can’t conceive why anyone would wish me any harm. We’ll stay for a few weeks, a month perhaps, and then I shall have to look around for another position.”

  He chose not to inquire why she didn’t write to her father for help. Penelope had grown up on the isle of Sicily, acting as her father’s hostess after her mother died, but something had gone awry between Sandford and his daughter. Though Buckler suspected this rift had to do with Penelope’s husband, she had never said so directly.

  “I begin to regret I ever recommended you to Lady Ashe’s notice.” He reached for her arm. “Come. Let us walk in the garden, and you can tell me all about it. You know that my brother is Sir Roger’s neighbor in the country. I shall write to him and tell him of your visit.”

  They walked down Crown Office Row and through a set of imposing iron gates. The garden was a pleasant place with its roses, elms, flowering shrubs, and neat graveled walks. Carefully cultivated beds of tulips and Dutch yellow crocus as well as peach, plum, lime, and cherry trees offered refreshment to the eye and a balm to the spirit. Penelope and Buckler strolled for a time, content to speak of commonplaces.